BRENDA JOYCE.

DEADLY ILLUSIONS.

Chapter 1.

New York City Tuesday, April 22, 1902.

5:00 p.m.

The crime scene was a gruesome one, indeed.

Chilled, Francesca Cahill stared at the woman. The victim was clad only in her corset,

chemise and drawers, lying in a pool of blood the same dark red-brown color as her hair. Shivers swept up and down Francesca's spine, shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature of the day, as it was warm and sunny outside, a perfect spring day. Not that one would ever guess that fact from this tenement flat. The railroad apartment that Francesca had so boldly entered was long and narrow, consisting of a single room. A window at each end let in some light, but not much, as the brick building just a few feet behind this one blocked out much of the daylight. At the flat's far end was the victim's bed, where she lay in her underclothes. Francesca stood in the doorway, the dark, dank corridor behind her. Between her and the victim were so many signs of a vital if impoverished life-a small sofa, the muddy-hued fabric torn and ripped, a faded and torn throw rug upon which sat a pail of water, as if the victim had been soaking her feet before bed. Beyond the small salon area, there was a rickety square table and two equally despairing chairs, one with a leg tied together. In the kitchen's area, there was a wood counter covered with some stacked plates and utensils, a wood-burning stove and a sink containing a pot and some other items. In the other direction, behind Francesca, there was a police sawhorse in the doorway of the flat. An officer had placed a Do Not Cross sign upon it. A man carefully viewed the body. Portly, of medium height, his suit shabby and tweed, Francesca recognized him instantly. She coughed to make her presence known and started forward, her navy blue skirts sweeping around her, tendrils of blond hair escaping her chignon and smart little navy blue hat. In her gloved hands, she clutched a purse. He whirled. "Miz Cahill!" he cried, clearly surprised to find her there in the apartment. She smiled warmly, determined not to be ousted from the crime scene although this was not her case, as she had no client requiring her to investigate this murder. "Inspector Newman, good day. Although from the look of things, this has not been a good day for the victim." She cast another glance at the dead woman, who appeared, at this closer range, to be in her early twenties. She had been a pretty woman. Newman had closed her eyes. He met her halfway. Flushing, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he said, "Are you on this case, Miz Cahill? Is the c'mish with you?" Her heart did a little flip. She hadn't seen the police commissioner in weeks, not really. Pa.s.sing him in the hall of Bellevue Hospital the times she had planned to visit his wife did not count. "I'm afraid I am alone. Does this appear to be the work of the Slasher?" she asked, her gaze drawn to the victim as a moth is drawn to candlelight. Newman blinked. "Her throat was cut, Miz Cahill, like them first two. But this one, well, she's dead. To my eye, it looks similar to the first two victims. Of course, until the coroner has examined the body, we cannot be sure." Francesca nodded gravely, her gaze briefly on Newman. If the newspapers were to be believed-and Francesca knew very well one could not always believe what the dailies reported-there was a pattern here. According to the Tribune, the first two victims had been young, pretty and Irish. The victims, however, had not been murdered, but merely had their throats slashed and were understandably traumatized. But the second slashing was sensational enough to warrant a headline. Of course, this third woman was dead, so maybe there was no connection. But Francesca did not believe that for a moment. She had learned since embarking on her profession of criminal investigation that she had very accurate instincts. They shrieked at her now. The Slasher was at work here-and the stakes had suddenly changed. Murder was now the name of the game. And that most definitely made the case her affair-as people she cared about lived two doors down. "Do we know her name?" she asked softly, noting the way the woman lay. Her arms were flung out, her head turned to the side. There had been a struggle. She felt certain that the dead woman was also Irish. "Yes. Her name is Margaret Cooper." He also turned to stare at the victim. Francesca started at the name, which was no more Irish than her own. She was surprised she had been wrong, but there was still a pattern. She went grimly forward but Newman suddenly detained her. "Miz Cahill? Should you be here? I mean-" and he blushed crimson "-this is a police matter and if the c'mish is not here, I am not quite certain you should be." Francesca didn't hesitate. "I am officially on this case, Inspector, and we both know the commissioner will be supportive of that." She smiled, at once friendly and firm. But she no longer knew just how supportive of her investigative work Rick Bragg would be. So much had changed-and so quickly. "Well, I guess I won't have to decide!" Newman cried in relief as footsteps sounded behind them from the hallway. Francesca didn't have to turn to know who it was. She tensed as the police commissioner strode past the sawhorse and into the room. He was a handsome, charismatic man. Once, she had thought him the most handsome man on the planet, but that had been before she had learned of his estranged wife and his on-again, off-again marriage. Rick Bragg stood a bit over six feet tall, his stride long and purposeful, his shoulders broad, the brown duster he wore for motoring swinging about him. His complexion was dark, his hair golden, and no one looking at him could mistake his air of authority and purpose. In fact, the night they had met at a ball held by her family, in spite of the crowd she had seen him the moment he entered the room. But that felt like a different lifetime, and she had been a different woman, oh yes. Their gazes met and held. She realized she had bit her lip and that her fists were balled up. Her pulse had also accelerated. "h.e.l.lo," she said, trying not to be nervous. But it was hard. Once, they had been in love. Now she was engaged to his most bitter rival-his half brother, the wealthy and notorious Calder Hart. If he was surprised to see her, he did not evince it. "Francesca," he said, pausing before her. His gaze did not move, not even once, from her to the victim or the crime scene. "This is a surprise." She stared into his amber eyes and instantly saw how tired he was, both emotionally and physically. She ached for him. She knew he had agonized over the condition of his wife. And suddenly she did not want to talk about Margaret Cooper- she wanted to talk about him, his wife and the two children fostering with them. She wanted to take his hand, she wanted to help. Instead, briskly, she said, "I ran into Isaacson from the Tribune." She tried to smile but it felt like a grimace and he simply stared, saying nothing. Her anxiety increased and she clutched her purse with both hands. "He must have been at headquarters when the call came in. When he told me that it might be the Slasher, and that the victim lived on Tenth Street and Avenue A, I had to come directly over. Maggie and her children live two doors away, Bragg," she said earnestly. "I know," he said. His expression softened. "I was concerned myself." He hesitated, studying her with some intensity, his gaze dipping to the way she held her purse. She smiled a little at him. He did not smile back. It was simply awkward now, being with him. What should she say, what should she do? Were they still friends? Did he hate her? Had he forgiven her for becoming engaged to the man he bitterly despised? Had he accepted the fact that one day she would marry Hart? For she had finally, with great difficulty, accepted the fact that Bragg belonged with his wife. Francesca wanted to reach out to him and demand answers to all those questions, but she did not dare. How selfish it would be. But G.o.d, there was no one she admired more, no one more n.o.ble, more determined, more honorable than Rick Bragg. He had been appointed police commissioner with the charge of reforming the city's infamously corrupt police department, but it was like spitting into the wind. He had fired some officers, hired new ones, rea.s.signed entire units, but every small step forward was gained at a painful cost. The press hounded his every move. The clergy and the reform movement demanded he do more; politics demanded he do far less. Tammany Hall had lost the last election, but still ruled most of the city. He was up against Platt's political organization, and the mayor, elected on a reform platform, did not always back him up, afraid of losing the working man's vote. An election loomed, one Mayor Low did not want to lose. Bragg fought it all, alone. She knew he would never give up. And all this with his wife lying in the hospital, the victim of a tragic carriage accident. "I heard that Leigh Anne will be going home soon," she suddenly said, reaching for his hand without thinking about it. He started as her fingers closed over his, and realizing what she had done, she quickly released him. "Yes. In fact, they will release her tomorrow." He looked away. Francesca knew him so well-or once she had. Now she could not tell whether it was grief or guilt that made him flinch and turn away. "Thank G.o.d she regained consciousness within days," Francesca whispered, a small hurt inside her heart. Why couldn't she simply hug him and hold him close? He needed to be comforted, that much she knew. She might be engaged to another man, but she would always love Rick, too. He was grim and he did not speak. "Is the prognosis the same?" she asked. She had gone to the hospital several times, but in the end had only visited with the rest of the Braggs, who had been coming and going to see Leigh Anne, and not with Leigh Anne herself. She had been afraid of her reception; she had not wanted to upset the other woman, either. "She will never walk again." His tone was flat, final. He glanced past her at the victim. "If this is the work of the so-called 'Slasher,' then we have a serial killer on the loose." He walked over to the bed. Francesca followed until they both stood within feet of the victim. "But the first two victims survived, if the reports I have read were correct." He grimly surveyed the body in the bed. The sheets were a cheap coa.r.s.e cotton, and except for the bloodstains, freshly laundered. The woman's hair was undone and some of it lay across her neck. "They did survive. Both attacks were one week apart, exactly, each on subsequent Mondays." "Oh dear," Francesca said, intrigued in spite of the terrible tragedy she was witness to. The reporters had failed to note that. "Was this woman killed yesterday?" "She was found at noon today. But I am going to hazard a guess that she was killed last night, Francesca." He gave her a significant look. If the woman had been in her underclothes, then she had been murdered either first thing in the morning, or in the evening before bed. "Rick, I had read that the first two victims were Irishwomen in their twenties. Is that true?" He leaned over the woman and moved her long, tangled dark red hair away from her neck. Her throat was brutally slit. Francesca wanted to gag; instead, she closed her eyes and breathed hard. No matter how many cases she had, she was certain she would never grow accustomed to violence and death. Of course, there had only been six investigations thus far. Her career as a sleuth had begun last January when her neighbor's son had been abducted. She had tried to help, never imagining how it would change her life. Bragg straightened. "Both victims were Irishwomen in their twenties, yes. Both were estranged from their spouses. From the look of this cut, I would say the Slasher has been at work again, but this time with deadly results." Francesca stared, forgetting all about her fiance. She fought her queasiness. "This woman is not Irish. The name Cooper is as American as apple pie." "A pattern remains. Three attractive young women, each without means, a.s.saulted on subsequent Mondays." Francesca agreed. "Do you think she was killed accidentally? Or is murder now the Slasher's intent?" "I have no idea. But if she was murdered Monday, and if the Slasher holds true to the course he has set, there will be another victim in six days exactly." He faced her and their gazes met. "We will find this killer, Bragg. And I do mean it." He started and, finally, began to smile at her. "If anyone can find him, you can."

She was thrilled at the gesture of intimacy and she smiled back. "I also a.s.sume the Slasher is a man, but we cannot rule out a woman. Remember, the Cross Killer turned out to be Lizzie O'Brien," she said, referring to a previous case.

"Of course I remember," he said, and then his expression changed and she thought he was remembering everything that had once been between them. He cleared his throat. "The two previous victims were Kate Sullivan and Francis O'Leary. Neither woman saw the Slasher, as he a.s.saulted them from behind. But it was a man."

She nodded. "Who alerted the police?"

"A Mrs. O'Neil found her. Apparently, she has the flat next door."

Francesca stiffened. "Bragg! Not Gwen O'Neil?" An image of the striking redhead a.s.sailed her mind.

His tawny eyebrows lifted. "Yes, that is her name. And she is at headquarters. She is very upset," he added. "Do you know her?"

She seized his arm. "Not only do I know her, you know her, too!"

After spending an hour or more with Bragg at the crime scene, Francesca went two buildings down to visit the seamstress who had become her dear friend, Maggie Kennedy.

As she went up the narrow staircase to the flat Maggie let, she was thoughtful. A killer was on the loose, unless the last victim had been accidentally murdered. All three victims had several characteristics in common: they were young, pretty, working cla.s.s and they all resided within two square blocks. The first two victims, Francis O'Leary and Kate Sullivan, also lived alone. Apparently Francis O'Leary's husband had vanished two years or so ago, while Kate Sullivan had left her spouse. Margaret Cooper had not worn a wedding band and there had been no sign of a male occupant in her flat-apparently, she had been single, too, although that they would have to confirm. All the victims had been a.s.saulted on a Monday, each a week apart. There was almost no doubt that there would be another a.s.sault next Monday and the likelihood was high that it would be somewhere in the ward and that the victim would be pretty, young, working cla.s.s, single and female.

Fortunately, the first two victims were alive, which meant she could interview them, perhaps even that afternoon. Although the police had spoken with them, she had not a doubt they had missed crucial clues. Bragg had not been personally involved in the case at that time. Then she remembered her mother's dinner party and sighed. She would have to attend or there would be a vast price to pay-Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not to be crossed lightly. The interviews would have to wait, as it was well past six already. And then there was Gwen O'Neil. Francesca intended to interview her, too. She wasn't thrilled that Gwen and her daughter, Bridget, lived right next door to the last victim, just as she wished Maggie did not reside so close by with her children, either. However, the neighborhood was filled with impoverished young women.

As she paused before Maggie's flat, she thought about the distance now separating her and Bragg. Perhaps she had been a fool to think that he could reconcile with his wife and she could marry another man and somehow they would remain friends. She could not help but be saddened. On the other hand, it was clear to her that he loved his wife, and she was certainly infatuated with Hart. In fact, he had gone to Chicago on business almost two weeks ago and it had been very hard not to think about him constantly.

At least Leigh Anne would be leaving the hospital and going home tomorrow. She wondered if she dared to call on her at home. Then she heard childish shrieks and laughter. Francesca began to smile as she knocked upon the door. Maggie was a widow and was raising four children by herself.

Eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy, once a pickpocket and now Francesca's invaluable sidekick, promptly answered her knock. He had pitch-black hair and fair skin and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He knew the city like the back of his hand and had helped her out of danger too many times to count. His face was flushed and he looked extremely annoyed. When he saw Francesca, though, he brightened. "Miz Cahill!"

She glanced past him into the one-bedroom flat, which was usually tidy. Now, goose feathers floated about the family room. Joel's two young brothers, Matt and Paddy, had clearly been in a pillow fight. The boys were on the floor, holding the mostly empty pillows, howling with laughter. They had clearly eaten, as she saw plates with bread crumbs on the kitchen table. Joel followed her gaze and scowled. "Idi'ts," he said. "Mum will be fierce unhappy when she sees them down feathers all wasted like that." "I see there has been no homework today?" Francesca asked. She knew that Maggie had Matt in school, unlike many other working-cla.s.s families. Too many of the city's impoverished cla.s.ses needed the extra income their children could generate. There was also a question of extreme overcrowding and under funding for the city's public schools. It was a shame. Joel, who could read and no longer attended school, shrugged. "He got some letters to do. But he don't want to do homework now. I didn't want to fight about it. Got better things to do." Francesca closed the door behind her as Joel's little three-year-old sister came stumbling out of the bedroom, clearly having been napping. "Joel, if they have eaten, Matt should sit down and do his letters. You know how to read-don't you want your brother to have the same skills and advantages as you? h.e.l.lo, Lizzie!" She tousled the sleepy child's silky black hair. Joel scowled at her. "Are you here on business, Miz Cahill? It's been awful quiet for way too long." Francesca set her purse down on the sofa. "Yes, I am. And I agree with you-it has been a quiet spell for us. Shouldn't your mother be home at any moment?" "She should be home real soon. So what case are we on?" he asked with an impish grin. His dark eyes sparkled. She patted his shoulder. "We are of a similar nature, you and I," she said fondly. Then, her smile fading, she said, "A woman was murdered two doors down, Joel. She was Gwen O'Neil's neighbor." He paled. "Miz O'Neil an' Bridget?" "They're fine," she a.s.sured him. "Can you start asking questions in the neighborhood? Did anyone notice a suspicious sort lurking about Margaret Cooper or her apartment or building? Was she afraid? Did she know she was in danger? Who were her friends? Did she have any visitors recently? We suspect the killer to be a man. And it might be the Slasher," she added. His eyes were wide and he nodded eagerly. "I can get started the minute Mum comes home," he said. "Get started on what?" Maggie Kennedy asked, letting herself into the flat. A paper sack filled with groceries was in her arms. "Francesca!" She smiled brightly. "How nice to see you!" "We got another case," Joel told his mother in a rush as she gave him a hug. "Been a murder, right on this block!" Maggie paled. "Joel, please, let me explain," Francesca said. Maggie moved to hug the rest of her children in turn, but Francesca could see her distress. "What is this mess?" she asked the two younger boys. "You know I can't afford more down! Now start picking up the feathers, every single one. Shame on you both," she added, a tremor in her tone. Francesca knew that Joel had worried her. She laid her palm on Maggie's back as the other woman straightened and smiled rea.s.suringly at her. "Shall we sit?" "Of course, where are my manners!" Maggie cried, flushing. She rushed to the small dining table not far from the stove and sink and pulled out one chair. "Let me boil some water for tea." Francesca went to her and took her arm. "Please, Maggie, do not stand on ceremony. I really wish to discuss the case with you." She gave her a significant look. Maggie met her gaze and slowly nodded. As they sat down, Joel slammed out of the apartment. Maggie started, clearly unhappy. "It's a miracle, really, for you to be giving him a salary, but...I worry so!" Francesca had quickly realized just how invaluable Joel was, so she had offered him employment as her a.s.sistant. He, of course, had been thrilled. "You know I would never knowingly put him in the path of danger," Francesca said, meaning it. "I know. You have saved my life-and you have really saved Joel's life, by taking him away from a world of thievery." Briefly, she cupped her face in her hands, her eyes closed. Then she sighed. "I am glad that Joel works for you, truly I am..." Francesca knew that Maggie was very tired from the long hours she put in sewing at the Moe Levy Factory. She touched her hand. "If you do not want him to work for me any longer, I will change it." Maggie shook her head. "He adores you. And he no longer is out on the streets, stealing purses behind my back. I'm just distraught today." Francesca could sense that and she wondered why. "Gwen O'Neil found her neighbor's body," she said after a pause. Maggie made a choking sound. "Is she all right?" Francesca took her hand. "I don't know. Bragg said she was upset. I imagine she will be home shortly, but she was at police headquarters this afternoon. We suspect it is the Slasher at work again, Maggie. But unlike the others, Margaret Cooper did not survive his latest attack." Maggie made a sound. "I knew them all! They live- lived-nearby." Francesca leaned forward eagerly. "So you are acquainted with all of the victims?" "In one way or another," Maggie cried. "Francis and I seem to shop for our groceries at the same time-she is so kind and so sweet-I often b.u.mp into her at Schmidt's Grocery Store. She was so happy," she added in a whisper. "She recently told me she was seeing someone she thought very special." Francesca sat up straight. "Isn't she the one whose husband disappeared some time ago?" If so, then she was still wed. "I know she was once married. I had thought she was a widow, actually," Maggie said with some surprise. Bragg had reviewed the file with her, and Francis O'Leary was no widow. "Do you know the name of the man she is seeing?" Francesca asked. "No. She didn't say. But she lives two blocks from here." "Yes, on Twelfth Street." Francesca decided she must interview Francis O'Leary immediately on the morrow. "Where does she work?" "She is a shop-girl at the Lord and Taylor store," Maggie said. "But when I saw her at church yesterday, she looked terrible. I think she wore a bandage under the collar of her gown and she had a black eye. Perhaps she is not back at work yet." Francesca absorbed all of that. If she called early enough, Francis O'Leary would be at home. "And you also knew Kate Sullivan and Margaret Cooper?" "I don't really know Kate, but we nod to one another at church on Sundays. She seems very sweet, but a bit shy. You know I'm friends with Gwen, and I met Margaret at her flat one evening when I had to borrow some sugar. She was so nice as well!" Maggie cried. A circle of friends, Francesca thought grimly, then revised her a.s.sessment of the situation. It was a circle of acquaintances, all hardworking women who lived very close to one another and would b.u.mp into one another in the course of the day or the week. "I want you to be careful," she finally said. Maggie stared, pale, and then glanced anxiously at her children. "Margaret Cooper lived two doors down, Francesca, and Kate Sullivan lives right around the corner. Not even a block away." She inhaled harshly. "Am I in danger?" "None of the three victims had children," Francesca said truthfully, although she felt that Maggie could very well be in danger. "Just keep your wits about you," Francesca advised."And I feel certain the children are not in danger. I believe the odds are that you are not,either. Still, we will exercise caution. Next Monday, I want you and the children to stay withme." Maggie started. "You mean in the mansion?" Francesca nodded. This would not be the first time she had put up Maggie and her childrenin her father's Fifth Avenue home. "The Slasher seems to be striking on Mondays, Maggie. Itis just a silly precaution." She smiled but it felt grim instead of rea.s.suring. Maggie hesitated, clearly torn. "I don't want to impose," she finally said. Francesca took her hand. "We are friends! It is not an imposition." "I'll think about it," Maggie returned slowly. "Maybe the Slasher will be caught by then." "I do hope so!" Francesca cried fervently. Maggie smiled a little, perhaps at Francesca's pa.s.sionate outburst. Carefully she gazed atthe table. Not looking up, she asked softly, "Has Evan returned home?" Francesca did not answer at first. She sat back in her chair, recalling how solicitous herbrother had been toward Maggie and her children when she had been living briefly withthem- and ever since. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had witnessed a romanticspark between them. But it was an impossible match-a seamstress from the Lower EastSide and the son of a millionaire. Of course, Evan had recently been disowned by theirfather. "No, he continues to reside at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I am so very proud of him forstanding up to our father." "I heard he took employment," Maggie said, her eyes still lowered. "Yes, as a law clerk." Society thought it unbelievable- Francesca had heard thegossip-that he would walk away from his family and his fortune. Maggie paused. "We haven't seen him since he came to take the children to the park lastmonth." Francesca did not know what to say. "I haven't seen him very much since he moved out. Thishas to be hard for him, working as a clerk and living in a hotel." "I supposed he is still seeing the beautiful countess Benevente?" Maggie murmured. Francesca did not know what to say or do. Then she decided the truth was the best course."Yes, they are often seen together. Evan has always gravitated toward bold women likeBartolla Benevente." Maggie finally looked up. "She is so beautiful. They make an astonishing couple. If hemarries her, it will be a good match. Don't you agree?" And she smiled, but it did not reachher blue eyes. Francesca could not mistake what she was witnessing. Maggie Kennedy was fond of herbrother in spite of the huge social gap between them. Francesca was at a loss. Even if Evanshared her feelings, it would be extremely difficult for them to make a match. But Evan didnot return her feelings, clearly, as he was so thoroughly preoccupied with the beautifulcountess. "Yes, it would be a socially acceptable match." She hesitated. "But I am not sureEvan is ready to marry anyone, Maggie. Not only is he a bit of a rake, you know, but afterleaving the family the way that he did, I think he needs a bit of time to reorganize his life." Maggie stood abruptly. "I am sure he will come home one day. I think I'll make that tea." "That's a good idea," Francesca agreed, relieved to end the subject of her brother.

Night had fallen, the day's spring temperature suddenly gone. Francesca shivered as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, wishing she had her coat with her. Now that the workday was over, the neighborhood had come alive with the sights and sounds of its residents. Men and women were coming and going on the streets, a gang of adolescent boys was playing stickball, ignoring a heavily laden pa.s.sing dray. There was tremendous activity in a corner saloon, and many windows were open, candles burning inside. The aroma of roasting meats wafted onto the gas-lit street.

Francesca had not taken the Cahill coach downtown, and now, glancing around, she

regretted it. Obviously there were no cabs in this area. If she walked four blocks, she could catch a horse-drawn omnibus crossing town and then hail a cab from Union Square. But it was dark now, and many of the pa.s.sersby on the street were a rough, rowdy lot. In fact, she mused as one of a pair of brawny men pa.s.sing her turned to look at her in her fine skirt and jacket, anyone could be the Slasher. But he would not strike again until next Monday-if he chose to follow the pattern he had set. She wished that she was not alone. Of course, she did have a small pistol in her purse. She had learned from experience to carry protection. Francesca started forward, clutching her simple black bag. Hart would murder her for being out in such a neighborhood after dark, alone and without transport. Someone hurrying her way, a child with him, b.u.mped into her as he pa.s.sed. Francesca tensed, continuing on, when she was seized from behind. Her heart slammed with fear. "Miss Cahill!" a woman cried, her brogue as thick as an Irish bog. Francesca turned, relief swamping her, and met not the gaze of a man, but that of a frightened, distressed woman. An instant later she realized that Gwen O'Neil had grabbed her and that Bridget stood closely by her mother. "Mrs. O'Neil! You startled me." Gwen released her. Her eyes were wide in her blanched face. "I cannot believe it's you! A friendly face -a sight for sore eyes," she cried. Francesca was now calm and attuned to the fact that Gwen was far more than relieved to see her. The woman looked ready to leap out of her skin from fear. She smiled at Bridget and instantly realized that the eleven year old knew all about her neighbor's murder. She stood stiff and frozen beside her mother, her eyes huge in her small face. "Mrs. O'Neil," she began, smiling and hoping to calm them both. But this was an opportunity not to be missed. Never mind that she was terribly late for her mother's dinner party-she would see these two safely home and catch a brief interview. Or perhaps even a substantial one, at that. But Gwen jumped as if she had caught on fire, glancing wildly around her, her eyes huge with fear. Francesca took her arm. "Mrs. O'Neil? What is it? What's wrong?" Gwen's dark eyes met hers. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Bridget was the one who spoke. Tears thickened her voice. "We're bein' followed," she cried.

Chapter 2.

Tuesday, April 22, 1902.

7:00 p.m.

Francesca glanced around but saw nothing amiss. Men and women continued to pa.s.s on their way home after a long day's work and the boys continued to slam the ball around in the cobbled street with their sticks. She faced Gwen grimly. "Let me take you up to your flat,"

she said.

"Would you?" Gwen cried in obvious relief.

Francesca took her arm. "Let's go," she said kindly. As Bridget preceded them, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. She half expected to see the Slasher standing against the tall iron street lamp, watching them. But nothing on the street had changed.

There was no light in the small entry hall, and the stairs were also dark with shadow, but that was not unusual in these terrible tenements. "I a.s.sume there are no gaslights?"

"No," Gwen breathed, fumbling in her shopping bag. "But I have a candle and matches."

Francesca carried a candle and matches as well, but she waited for the other women to light the wick. Gwen's hands were shaking so badly, though, that Francesca took the candle and match from her, struck a spark and lit it. Instantly the small, grim entry was illuminated.

Someone had hung a cracked mirror on one peeling wall in a futile attempt at decoration.

"Let's go, Bridget," she said with false cheer, shivering.

They hurried upstairs in single file, the steps creaking beneath their feet. Gwen and her daughter lived on the second floor, as had Margaret Cooper. When they pa.s.sed Margaret's flat, Francesca saw that the door was padlocked, meaning that the police had left. The sign Police Line had been nailed to the door. When she and Bragg had left the flat together, a photographer had just arrived. Bragg had conceived of the singular notion of photographing the victim and the crime scene for reference during the investigation. It was a brilliant idea. Gwen unlocked the door, her hands continuing to tremble. The moment they were all inside, she said tersely, "Bridget, light another candle," as she quickly bolted the door behind them. Francesca wondered how she was going to live in such a state of fear. She studied her from behind as the other woman turned, managing a smile and unpinning her straw hat. Instantly, her hair tumbled down. Francesca stiffened. She already knew that Gwen had dark red hair, but now she was struck by the fact that it was almost waist length, rather curly, and very much like the hair of Margaret Cooper. And while Gwen and Margaret did not look at all alike-Margaret had been pretty but in a soft way, and Gwen was striking-the similarity between them now was unmistakable. And Gwen lived next door to Margaret.... "You're staring," Gwen breathed. "I'm sorry. I know you found your neighbor, Mrs. O'Neil. I am so sorry. It must have been terrible." Behind her, another candle flamed to life, illuminating the long, single room more drastically. Gwen nodded. "It was terrible," she whispered. She put her hat on a peg and her wool shawl followed. She wore a simple print blouse and dark skirt. As she leaned over, Francesca realized she was taking off her shoes. Once in her stocking feet, she turned with a small smile. "My feet hurt," she whispered. Francesca guessed that her shoes were not store-bought and were either too small or had holes in the soles. Then, as she heard water running at the kitchen sink, she thought about the bucket of water she had seen in front of the sofa in Margaret's apartment. Had she had sore feet, too? Had she been soaking her feet before her murder? Was that how the killer had caught her? She smiled at Gwen. "Please, do not mind me. Are you certain that you were being followed?" Gwen hesitated and then moved to the small square table covered with a bright yellow tablecloth. A chipped gla.s.s was in its center, a single daisy there. She gripped the back of one chair. Bridget was lighting the stove and setting a pot of water to boil. "No. I mean, I'm not certain-but I am sure of it!" That made no sense. Francesca took off her gloves, laying them on the cheerful tablecloth. Bridget put a carrot, a potato and an onion into the pot. A pinch of salt followed. "Tell me why you think you were being followed," Francesca said softly. Tears filled Gwen's eyes. "I don't know! I didn't see anyone when I left police headquarters. But I had this feeling, a real strong feeling, that I was being watched! Haven't you ever had that feeling?" she cried. Francesca touched her arm. "Of course." "Oh Lord, where are my manners tonight? Miss Cahill, you have been nothing but kind to my daughter, saving her from those terrible men last month! Please, sit down. Bridget! Put on water to boil. We have tea," she said brightly, the tears shining on her cheeks. "English tea. It's special-I brought it with me," she added, clearly referring to her recent move from Ireland to New York. "Thank you," Francesca said, taking a seat. Gwen continued to stand. "So you did not see anyone?" "No. I didn't. But I couldn't shake the feeling, not the whole way from the police station." Francesca nodded. "Why don't you sit, too? You have had an exceedingly difficult day." But Gwen had gone to the stove to stir the soup pot. "You probably think me mad," she said over her shoulder.

"No, I do not." "Bridget, wash your face and hands." Bridget had been standing quietly in the corner of the room where the counter next to thestove met the sink. "I want to go home!" she suddenly cried. "I hate it here! But mostly, I hateLord Randolph!" Francesca stood, the urge to take the child in her arms overwhelming. She wondered whoLord Randolph was. Instead, Gwen rushed to her daughter, enfolding her against herbosom, holding her tightly. "I know, darling, I know. But we can't go home. You know we cannever go back." Bridget burst into tears and ran behind the curtain that clearly part.i.tioned off a sleeping area.Gwen stood staring at the mustard-colored drape, clearly torn and anguished. Francescacould not fathom Gwen's last words. Why couldn't she and her daughter return home? Francesca went to her and laid her palm on her shoulder. "How hard this must be for youand your daughter, making a home for yourselves in a new land." "It's hard," Gwen whispered. "I tried to find good work, but all I could find was work in afactory. We make candles all day long. At home, I was a ladies' maid in a mansion on a hill.We were never hungry," she added. Francesca had recently hired a new maid for her own home, when the staff was already full.Ellie had been a vagrant but had witnessed a murder. Now she was the most dedicatedmaid at the Cahill home. She knew her mother, Julia, would not allow another addition to thehousehold. Francesca wondered if her sister needed another servant. How perfect that would be! "Doyou have references?" she asked. Gwen looked away. "I'm afraid not." Francesca was startled. She wondered what the lack meant, but knew that now was not thetime to pursue it. And she did not doubt that Gwen had been a fine ladies' maid. She was afair judge of character, and trusted Gwen's sincerity. Then a brilliant idea occurred to her.Calder Hart. She brightened. He wouldn't care if she hired another maid for that hugemausoleum he called a home. She made a mental note to place Gwen in his domesticemploy immediately. "May I ask you some questions, Mrs. O'Neil? I am taking on the caseof Margaret's murder." Gwen nodded, moving to sit down. She let out a sigh of exhaustion as she did so. Francesca sat beside her. "Did you know Margaret Cooper?" Gwen nodded. "She was already living here when we moved in. She was very pleasant, veryfriendly, offering to show me and Bridget around. She helped me get my first employment,but the work was so far downtown that I quit when I found the opening at the candle makers.We had supper together once or twice. She was a good person, Miss Cahill. She did notdeserve to die!" "So she was not married?" "No, she was entirely alone in this world," Gwen said. "Did she have a gentleman friend?" Francesca asked, thinking about the fact that there hadbeen no sign of a male visitor in her flat. "No. In fact, I found it odd, as she was so pretty and kind." Francesca took a notepad and pencil from her purse and made some notes. "Margaretmust have had some kind of personal life." "She went to work six days a week and to church every Sunday. You do know," Gwenadded, "that I have already told all of this to the police." "I would love to hear your answers for myself, if you do not mind. I care very much about thiscase and about bringing Margaret's killer to justice," Francesca said earnestly. "The policehave a great many investigations to handle. I have just one." "Of course." Gwen smiled a little the first time that evening, apparently beginning to relax.The water began to boil and she got up to make the tea. "What faith was Margaret?"

"She was Baptist," Gwen said over her shoulder. Then she smiled again, her eyes softening.

"I took her to my church once. She was very religious, Miss Cahill. Her mother was Irish. Did you know that?"

Francesca sat up straighten Here was another link, she thought eagerly. Kate Sullivan and Francis O'Leary were Irish-and now, Margaret had turned out to be of Irish descent. "No, I hadn't known. Where did Margaret work?"

"She was a shop-girl. She worked in some fancy sweet shop uptown. I don't recall the store's name but she referred to the fact that it was next door to A.T. Stewart's."

A.T. Stewart's was a popular department store. The sweetshop shouldn't be that hard to locate. Gwen brought her a cup of tea carefully, as there was no saucer to catch any spills. Francesca smiled her thanks and inhaled. "It does smell delicious," she said, meaning it. The tea was strong and spicy, exotic, and obviously expensive. It seemed like quite an indulgence for Gwen O'Neil. "It is wonderful," Gwen said almost proudly. "I put a spoon of sugar in it. I hope you do not mind." "Thank you so much," Francesca said, knowing that sugar was another expense Gwen could not afford. She took a sip and found the tea as rich to the palate as it was aromatic. She set the cup down. "How did you find the body and when did you find it?" Gwen's smile vanished. "This morning. I was leaving to go to work. I was late because Bridget has a cough and I made her an elixir before I left. I let her stay home from school yesterday and today." She began to cry. "As I went down the hall, I saw that Margaret's door was open. That was odd, so I glanced inside...and saw her lying there on her bed, as dead as could be." She began to shake. Francesca stood and hurried to her. "There, there, it's all right. It's fortunate that you found her. Was her door ajar Monday night when you returned home from your employment?" "I don't know. I don't recall. If it was open last night when I came home, I didn't notice. Miss Cahill, was he killing her, right next door, while me and my baby slept?" Francesca hesitated and clasped her shoulder. "We do not yet know when she was murdered, Mrs. O'Neil." Gwen sobbed. "Dear G.o.d, it could have been me or my little girl!"

It took forty-five minutes to get uptown, and by the time the doorman let Francesca into the Cahill mansion, situated on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park, the gilded clock on the marble mantel in the salon adjacent to the receiving room indicated that it was half past eight. As Francesca handed off her hat and gloves, she did not need to know the exact time in order to know just how late she was. The dining room was several doors down, but she could hear the robust conversation of her mother's dinner party. As it was accompanied by the tinkle of crystal gla.s.sware and the tapping of silver upon china, she knew that supper was already in progress. Her head throbbed and her new, white kidskin shoes were too tight. Like Gwen O'Neil-and perhaps Margaret Cooper-her feet were sore. She knew there would be some huge cost to pay, but she'd already decided to sneak up to her room, avoiding the party altogether. Besides, how would she explain that she was late? Her parents frowned upon her sleuthing, as she was only twenty years old and still a part of their household. Of course, she had no doubt she could be thirty and married with children and Julia would still despair over her reputation should she continue investigative work. Many times she had half promised Julia that her days as a sleuth were over. But the half truths were merely that. As much as she disliked lying to her mother, she had found her calling in life. She was an excellent investigator, and she had the record to prove it. Attending supper was out of the question. Francesca smiled at the doorman and began to cross the long receiving room. The press had dubbed the Cahill home the "Marble Mansion" upon its completion some eight years ago. Her father, raised on a farm in Illinois, had become a butcher and eventually expanded into the country's largest meatpacking business. Francesca had been born in Chicago, but the family had moved to New York City when she was a child. The press had had a field day with her home-and even as a six-year-old, she had read the dailies. At the time, Andrew and Julia Cahill had outdone the Astors and the Melons. Almost the entire room she now sought to cross was marble-the black-and-white floors, the pale Corinthian columns, the carved panels on the walls. The mahogany dining-room doors were open. Francesca touched her hair, trying to tuck some loose blond tendrils behind her ears. By now, the bit of rouge she had started wearing on her cheeks and lips had long since vanished, the hem of her skirts was dirty and she was quite an untidy mess. She hoped no one would note her pa.s.sing. As Francesca started past the open double doors, she stole one sidelong peek into the room, where twenty-two guests sat at the linen-clad table. The table sat ten on each long side, one at both heads, hence twenty-two guests, unless a place remained vacant for her. Then Julia's entourage would number twenty-one. She glimpsed a room filled with fine crystal and gilded china, the ladies in evening gowns, the men in tuxedos, and she grimaced, ducking and increasing her pace. But there was no escaping Julia. "Francesca!" Julia Van Wyck Cahill cried. Her tone was stern and it halted her daughter in her tracks. Her cheeks warmed with guilt. Francesca felt like a thief caught with her hand in someone else's safe, not for the first time. Well, there was no escaping now. Slowly, she returned to the threshold of the room, attempting a pleasant smile for the large audience. All conversation stopped. Mild stares were turned her way. Julia stood. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Francesca and her mother. Julia was blond, blue-eyed and still of a fine figure. She had been a reigning beauty in her day. As always, she was resplendently dressed in a blue evening gown of silk and lace with three-quarter sleeves, with sapphires at her ears and neck to match. She seemed rigidly displeased, but Francesca did not notice. Instead, in shock, her gaze whipped past her mother to the dark man sitting so indolently at the table in its center. There was no vacant place, because Calder Hart had taken it. But he was supposed to be in Chicago, wasn't he? Her heart slammed and raced. Calder was home. "You're back," she whispered, stunned, and their gazes locked. He slowly got to his feet, a very slight smile on his dark face, and he bowed. Francesca had missed him and there was no denying it. Maybe her attraction to Hart was purely physical, but she dearly hoped not. And if it was, then she was not the first to be so foolishly smitten. Francesca had always a.s.sumed she would one day marry a man like her father, someone respectable, admirable, honorable, a reformer and an activist-someone like Rick Bragg. Instead, she was engaged to the city's wealthiest businessman and most notorious womanizer. She still remained uncertain as to how this had happened, and so quickly. One moment she was friends with the enigmatic and oh-so-charismatic Hart and he was under suspicion for murder. The next, they were secretly engaged-until he had taken matters in his own hands, tired of her procrastination, making a public announcement. How had she fallen in love with Calder Hart? And was it even love? Whenever she was with Hart, she felt as if she had boarded a locomotive that had lost all its brakes and was speeding downhill on an endless track. But as frightening as it was, she would not jump off, oh no. She had made up her mind. Francesca could hardly breathe as Julia said, "Are you going to join us, Francesca? You are a bit late, of course, but I am sure the traffic must have been terrible. And as you can see, your fiance called. Of course, I invited Calder to stay and dine with us." Francesca had the utmost difficulty tearing her gaze from Hart. But there was an odd note in Julia's tone, anxiety, perhaps, or tension. And then she gave up, simply staring at the man who had somehow, inexplicably, offered marriage, mumbling, "I had better go upstairs and change." Calder stepped away from the dining table. With some alarm, he said, "Francesca, are you about to faint?" Francesca had no clue as to what he was speaking about. Before she could react he was at her side, his arm around her waist as if holding her up. "I'm afraid my fiance needs some air," he said firmly, and before either Andrew or Julia could speak, he was propelling her from the room. Hart was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was clad in a dark suit. The pitch-black wool might have been dour on another man, but on him it only heightened a sense of danger and made him more alluring. Hart's gaze moved over her face and Francesca knew she blushed, her heart continuing to race wildly. His dark eyes-midnight blue flecked with gold- slipped down her jacket and skirts. She began to smile, leaning against him. They crossed the hall and entered a salon, Hart's strong arm an anchor about her waist. He stopped just inside the salon, one with a dozen opulent seating areas. Smiling back at her, he pushed the door closed with his foot. She choked down her rising laughter. "That was painfully transparent." He took her in both arms. "I have been away for two very long weeks, Francesca," he murmured, "and we both know I don't care what the present company says or thinks." She knew she should protest as his hands slipped to her shoulders. Not because she did not want his kisses, but because her father was very opposed to Hart and was testing him in every way to see if he was worthy of her. Julia, on the other hand, wanted the match and openly gloated about it. She grasped his shoulders, too. "I think you missed me, Hart." She felt certain that he had and she grinned, never mind the heat slamming through her body. "How clever a deduction," he said. "And it's Calder, darling-or am I making you nervous?" A dimple winked in his cheek. He was making her nervous, d.a.m.n him for knowing! They had only shared a few hours of intimacy together, and she had forgotten how devastating it was being in his arms, his hard, strong body pressed up against hers. Clearly he was aroused, and she decided to ignore the question. "Are you going to kiss me or not?" "Bold wench," he said, and she heard laughter in his tone. "You did not answer me, darling. Why am I making you nervous?" And he stared intently into her eyes, no longer smiling at all. She stared back, her breath suspended. "I don't know," she finally said. "These past few weeks have felt so odd. I have been drifting about in a fog. It's almost as if it has all been a dream. I expect to wake up and find you a figment of my imagination!" Surprise was there in his eyes, which were turning the color of ash. But his grip tightened on her. "I'm flattered, Francesca, but I am not a dream. In fact, some women find me a nightmare." She wet her lips, well aware of all the broken hearts he had left in his wake. "I don't," she began. "Calder-" He cut her off, pulling her close and covering her mouth with his. Francesca lost all coherent thought. He knew how to kiss a woman, as he had seduced so many, but this time he wasn't interested in seduction. As his mouth instantly opened hers, as he penetrated deeply with his tongue, she sensed his need to possess. She melted as he kissed her again and again, somehow standing, her legs useless, desire pooling between her thighs, a flood. Hart had come to hold her face in his hands as he continued to kiss her as deeply as he could. Somehow, she managed to realize that he had really missed her. His desire felt explosive. She was beyond thrilled. She tore her mouth from his. It was hard to speak as she clung to him. "Why don't you take me home tonight," she finally gasped. His eyes widened. "I won't pretend I am not tempted and highly so, but nothing has changed. We wait until our wedding night, Francesca." Her hands fisted and she pounded him once on the chest. "d.a.m.n it! I hate your n.o.bility!" He smiled at her. "I'm the least n.o.ble man you know. But I won't treat you like the others."

"You've never offered marriage to anyone else, so even if we share a bed before thewedding, you are not treating me like the others!" she cried. But this was a useless battleand she knew it. They'd had it several times before. He stepped away from her, murmuring, "I'll take care of you, but this is not the time or theplace." She finally began to breathe, trembling now. She knew what he meant. She had been in hisbed, once, for a few hours. He had touched and kissed her everywhere, giving her morepleasure than she had ever dreamed possible. It had been sheer ecstasy. She blushed justthinking about it. "When?" He laughed and turned away, raking his hand through his coa.r.s.e, dark hair. "As soon as theopportunity presents itself," he said, amus.e.m.e.nt in his tone. "What is so entertaining about this?" she demanded, hands on her hips. He stood at the fireplace, both hands on the marble mantle, and he gave her a look over hershoulder. His eyes were hot; his tone was not. "This is far harder for me than you, darling.Trust me." "Let's move up the wedding," she demanded. "You know it is your father who insists upon a year." "I am going to change his mind," Francesca vowed grimly. He turned and faced her, making no effort to come close. "There is blood on your jacket," heremarked. Surprised, she glanced down at herself. When she saw a large, obvious smear of driedblood on the bottom of her blue wool jacket, she gasped. Then the comprehension dawnedand horrified, she looked up. His smile was grim. "Only you would walk into a dinner party covered in blood. Anothercase...darling?" She found her voice. "No wonder Mama sounded so strange! Oh, dear! And I am notcovered in blood-it is one smear!" "There's a patch on your skirt, too." His tone was flat and surprisingly calm. Which meant nothing. With Hart, it could be the lull before the storm. Francesca carefullynoted a spot near her left knee. "I must have brushed the sheets," she remarked, more toherself than to him. "The sheets? Care to elaborate?" How casual he sounded. She wrung her hands and met his gaze. "Did everyone see?" "Undoubtedly." He softened, approaching and taking her small hands in his large ones. "Wewill be the talk of the town, will we not, darling? I can see it now. My indiscretions, my past,my penchant for depravity, my shocking art-all will become pa.s.se. You shall meet me at anaffair covered in blood, or with the smell of gunpowder on your clothes and in your hair. Now,instead of gossiping about me behind my back, they will gossip about you. They shallwhisper that we are the oddest match, but that we deserve one another." He actually smiled,clearly enjoying the notion. "This isn't funny," she said, her heart sinking. "I know you don't care about your reputation,but I do care about mine, or at least, Mama cares, desperately, and-" He suddenly reached out and reeled her back into her arms. "I know it hurts you to be calledan eccentric, but with me at your side, they can call you far worse and it simply will notmatter. As my wife, you will be able to do as you want. Surely you know that, Francesca?Our marriage will give you more freedom to be what you truly are than you have everdreamed of." She stared, stunned. Of course, she knew Hart liked to shock society, as he so disdained itsconventions, and he had the wealth and power to do whatever he pleased, whenever hepleased. But she frankly hadn't considered the power she would gain as his wife. He wasright. They might gossip about her behind her back, but as Mrs. Calder Hart, no door wouldever be closed to her. As Mrs. Calder Hart, she could do whatever she pleased, whenevershe pleased to do it.

The concept was stunning. He chuckled softly. "You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see howsurprised you are, and how pleased." He added, "I am glad that is not the reason you aremarrying me. It isn't my wealth you are after and it isn't position and power. Hmm. It must bemy kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case." She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer. "It is definitely your kisses,Hart, that has so ensnared me." She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merelyfrom desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn't she been worrying about thatvery possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changedthe subject. "Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?" His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. "No." Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. "Do you remember little BridgetO'Neil?" she asked. He nodded. "Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prost.i.tution ring." "Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it wasalso the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think." She thought about the trip shemust make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business,actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed beenthe murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O'Leary. Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wishedshe had chosen her words with more care. "We?" he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp. She winced to herself and sighed. "Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned asI was for Maggie Kennedy's safety. We happened to be there at the same time andapparently we are both on the case." She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be ajealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, attimes arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged. His jaw flexed. "Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so n.o.ble half brother." She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. "He is thecommissioner of police!" "He has more to do than investigate common crimes-he has a detective force for that."Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now. She followed. "You have no reason to be jealous," she said, and the moment she spoke sheregretted it. He turned. "I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick." His eyes hadturned dark. "If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him." "Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?" And his tone wasmocking. She tensed. "Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment.Good G.o.d, a moment ago I was fainting from pa.s.sion in your arms! I don't want Bragg to bebetween us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact withhim." He sighed. "You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day Ihave been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind andtake him back." She was stunned. "He is married. Leigh Anne almost died. In fact, she is going hometomorrow. He would never leave her, especially not now." Hart stared at her, clearly not accepting her every word. Francesca did not like it. She was being sincere. She wanted to marry Calder Hart, nevermind that there would be no white picket fence, never mind his reputation and his ex-lovers.The only thing she could not get past was how much courage was involved in being withsuch a man.

"And if he did leave her? Then what?" he asked softly. She felt chilled. "You already know my answer." "Do I?" He was grim. Francesca felt real despair. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved him, butshe knew that everyone whose opinion she held dear would advise her against it. And evena woman of no previous experience knew better than to tell the city's most notoriouswomanizer that she was in love. Besides, her emotions were so turbulent she wasn't sure itwas love. "Hart, you do know." She hurried to him and took his hands in hers. "I want to bewith you. I think I have been clear." He just looked at her and she wished that she could read his mind, but at times like this, itwas impossible to know what he might be thinking. And then he spoke. "I am your secondchoice, Francesca, and there are times when it is crystal clear." And in that moment, she had a terrible premonition that he would never forgive her forwanting Rick Bragg first, for once thinking him her true love. Uneasy, she stood on tiptoeand tried to kiss him. As she feathered his unmoving mouth with hers, she said, "Pleasebelieve me. Remember, there have never been any lies between us. I will never lie to you,Calder. Not ever. It is you I want." He made a disparaging sound, but his arms went around her, tightening. "You want me inbed, darling. And while I do not mind, we both know neither one of us would be here like thisif Leigh Anne had stayed in Europe." Francesca stiffened. For once she was at a loss and could not think of a good reply.

His gaze was fixed on the candle shining in the apartment window across the dully lit street.

A single pa.s.sing carriage, too fine for the ward, could not distract his eyes. He did not blink, not even once, but simply stared and stared.

He waited for a glimpse of her, moving about her flat, and he shivered, but not from the cold.

He was used to damp and cold far more bitter than this. No, he shivered from excitement.

He stared unblinking at the hint of shadows moving inside the flat. And suddenly he saw her.

The trembling ceased.

He was sick of them all.

Every single one, all of them wh.o.r.es, just like her.

Rage filled him-rage and need. Bloodl.u.s.t.

He had made a terrible mistake and he knew it, but soon, very soon, his knife would cut, and this time, it would not be a tragic mistake, oh no. This time, the faithless b.i.t.c.h would die.

He smiled and his fingers twitched and then he found the hilt of the knife and he gripped it with great care. And watching her, he slowly stroked the blade.

Chapter 3.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902.

9:00 a.m.

He had come to hate the city's most renowned hospital. Now, instead of getting out of his roadster, Rick Bragg stared at the entrance of the pavilion in which his wife was being treated, gripping the Daimler's steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached, dread forming in his chest. The hospital took up several city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-eighth Streets, from the East River to Second Avenue. The many buildings that comprised it had been erected independently of one another, so that some of the pavilions were narrow and tall, others broad, whitewashed and squat. Just to his left, there was new construction under way for the tuberculosis clinic that would open early next year. A crane was lifting huge blocks of granite, the workers in their flannel shirts shouting encouragement to the operator. He knew he was a coward. He had been sitting in his motorcar for twenty or thirty minutes, delaying the inevitable moment of alighting from the vehicle, of entering the accident ward, of walking down the sterile corridor, of crossing the threshold of the room that contained his wife. It was not that he did not want to see her. It was that being with her took every ounce of hisstrength. But she was alive, he reminded himself, fiercely relieved. Alive, conscious, with no apparentimpairment to her brain. He didn't care that her left leg was useless, that she would neverwalk again. Not when weeks ago it had seemed as if she might never wake up. The guilt crushed him. And for one moment, it was as if one of the granite blocks being carried to the newconstruction site had landed on him, making it impossible to breathe. Decisively, Bragg got out of the Daimler. He laid his gloves and goggles on the front seat.Two pa.s.sing male nurses nodded at him. He tried to recall their names and failed. His duster over his arm, he strode up the concrete path to the Accident Pavilion and pushedthrough the wood-and-gla.s.s door. Nurses, both male and female, and doctors stood aroundthe reception desk. Someone saw him and waved him on through. Her door was open. He paused, his heart beginning to race, and as he looked inside thesterile whitewashed room with several beds, all unoccupied except for hers, he saw that shewas sitting up against her pillows, flipping through Harper's Weekly. His heart quickenedimpossibly. She wore one of her own peignoirs, lavender silk and cream lace, and evencrippled, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She realized he was standing there, staring, and she looked up, slowly putting the magazineaside. He somehow smiled. He was perspiring now. So many emotions ran riot that he had moretrouble breathing, thinking. The most dominant feelings were vast relief and crushing guilt. "Good morning," he heard himself say. She carefully returned his smile. "Good morning." Leigh Anne was a pet.i.te woman, barelyfive feet tall, with the face of a china doll. Her perfect features-large green eyes, tiny noseand rosebud mouth-were accentuated by a delicate ivory complexion. Her hair was thick,silken, straight and black. No man could enter a room where she was present and not looktwice and then stare. He noticed several new flower arrangements on the windowsill. She followed his gaze. "Rourke came last night." "In the middle of the week?" His half brother was attending medical school in Philadelphia. "A